


It All Comes Back

by hulklinging



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce, Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), PIERCE Tamora - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulklinging/pseuds/hulklinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragedy leaves gaping holes in the fabric that makes up the Kingsmen. Nothing a good tailor can't fix, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandry

**Author's Note:**

> I blame my roommate for this entirely.

Niklaren Goldeye stares at the report, rereading it for the third time, hoping that somehow by doing so the words will have changed. Of course no such thing happens, and he feels his stomach sinking, a heavy burden of sadness settling on his shoulders, becoming a part of him.

Then he stands, strong and tall, not a hair out of place, and goes to tell Arthur that four of their knights have fallen.

* * *

"Miss Fa Toren, a word?"

Sandrilene Fa Toren, Sandry to her friends, purses her lips in confusion. She's not sure what her history professor might be stopping her over. Yes, her last essay was a tad... aggressive, sure. But there was nothing there that was incorrect, and as far as her subject, well she doesn't see how an essay on the women of Bletchley with a focus on how grossly under-appreciated they are by history doesn't fid the assignment. "Write about a specialized group of soldiers in World War Two." She could have written about paratroopers or spies like everyone else, but that was so... uninspiring.

"Professor?" She enquires, trying her best to mask her impatience. Any other day she would hardly have minded being kept behind, but today she has a group meeting, one she is supposed to lead. Tardiness is not something she particularly enjoys.

"This is an... old friend of mine." He gestures to the woman beside him, and Sandry takes her in. Her first thought is 'they can't be that old of friends,' for this woman still looks quite young. She has a kind smile, clothes that are loose and simple and impeccably made, and calluses on her palm that Sandry can feel from their brief handshake.

"Call me Lark," she says, and her voice is warm and low. She's the exact opposite of her old, stiff history prof, really. Sandry finds herself liking the woman immediately.

"Miss Lark was hoping to speak with you regarding a very exciting 'hands on' opportunity." And he sounds excited, too.

"What kind of opportunity?"

Lark looks at the professor, all sweetness. "I don't suppose we could use your office, Richard? We won't be long."

Sandry wants to tell her she's short on time, but the way Lark turns away, heading for the small adjourning office without waiting for permission, makes Sandry follow her instead.

Once the door is closed, Lark sits down on the desk with a relieved sigh.

"He hasn't improved at all, has he?"

Sandry shakes her head, leaning against a bookcase. "Are you an old student of his?"

Lark ignores the question, and Sandry doesn't' miss this. She matches Lark's contemplating stare with a curious one of her own.

"Your grades are impressive."

"Is this a job interview?"

Lark laughs. "Maybe."

"What kind of job?"

Again, no answer. Sandry clasps her hands behind her back so she doesn't fidget. Lark pulls a bundle of papers out of her bag, and Sandry recognizes her essay at the top.

"It's a good essay," Lark says, flipping through the papers. "Your mom and dad were ambassadors, right?"

A curt nod.

"How many languages can you speak?"

"Five." Fluently. She knows bits and pieces of more.

"You're majoring in history and international affairs... Used to ride horses..."

Now she just runs. Early in the morning, before anyone else is around. She's a people person, she is, but that hour is just for her. Her skin prickles. Lark's looking at some file of hers, reading off a paper that appears to be a summary of Sandry's whole life. That's more than a school file, then. What is this all about?

"Now your only extra curricular is your sewing group?"

Sandry bristles. "We make clothes for refugees."

"Fantastic." Lark seems to mean it, too. Not like her advisor, who always feels the need to remind her that getting arrested at another protest will not look good on her record. Or the other people in her classes, the ones who sneer at her knitting during lectures, made snide remarks about what kind of fake feminist she must be, rich bitch who's always sewing and probably has an arranged marriage somewhere. Really breaking the traditional mould.

Maybe she would have had one, or something like it, because high society changes slowest of all, but her parents died before anything was ever mentioned to her, in an epidemic of a disease that everyone in this country would rather think of as extinct. So yes, she's got a fury in her, a fire made for fighting and an arrogant tone to match. She's stopped caring about the sensitive dignities she's stepping on in order to make real change.

"What kind of job is it?" She repeats herself, because Lark is still looking at her like she's brilliant, something special, and she doesn't know what she's done.

Lark taps her finger on the essay.

"Let's call it a clerical one."

Sandry's eyes go wide in shock, and she tries to keep her voice from going all breathy with excitement.

"I'm interested."

The woman stands up, and Sandry notes the grace in which she does this, the beautiful lines of her outfit that compliment her body perfectly. And the pants have pockets, too. Sandry's dying to take a look at the fabric, maybe ask Lark where she got such a thing, but instead she's distracted by the business card Lark has produced from said pocket. It has a coat of arms on one side, and on the other a date, time, and address.

"I hoped you would be."

Sandry traces the lines of the coat of arms, and gives herself an extra second to smile.

 


	2. Daja

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first four chapters are gonna be introducing the four. After that, we'll start to get chapters that are actually decently sized.
> 
> Thanks for reading this, y'all! Honestly didn't think this would interest many people, and the response was so kind.

Daja's boss is acting oddly.

Frostpine is an odd man to start with, certainly. But he'd gotten a phone call this morning, just as Daja and Kirel were coming into the shop. Whatever it had been regarding had put him in a mood. By lunch, he isn't even working on the project in front of him, something that looks oddly like the skeleton of an umbrella.

"Something wrong, boss?' Kirel finally attempts to make contact. Him and Daja had a silent but vicious game of rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honour of asking the man what was up. Kirel had lost.

Frostpine looks up at him like he'd forgotten he isn't the only one here.

"Kirel." He smiles, but it looks strange on his face. "Take the rest of the day off."

"What?" The two apprentices share a surprised look. Frostpine is an excellent teacher, fair and sharp, but giving them a day of freedom during the week is unheard of.

Daja begins to pack up her work as well, but then Frostpine is across from her. With the smile gone, he just looks tired now. Tired and a little sad.

"Finish packing up, but don't leave, please. We have something to discuss."

Daja nods, feeling the first touch of anxiety grab at her belly. Was she about to be let go? She sends a quick prayer to the Bookkeeper. She's worked hard here, is making her mark here, learning how to make everything from nails to monocles to knives. She doesn't have anywhere else to go.

Kirel gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze as he leaves, and Daja takes a deep breath. Feeling more steady, she goes to meet her teacher.

Frostpine is sitting at his desk, which looks so strange, bare. He's always working on something, tinkering away. Daja doesn't think she's ever seen him so still. She stands in front of him, her shoulders stiff, until he waves a hand and she takes the seat across from him.

He mutters something like 'Manners maketh, of course," with a wry smile, before looking up at her.

"What can you tell me about this?"

He slides over a small piece of metal, and Daja's brows furrow. This is going back to before he'd even taken her on as an apprentice, when he gave her a few pieces of metal and asked her to tell him all she could about them. She feels very young, sitting here, and she doesn't even look down at the piece, at first, using her careful hands to feel what she can.

It's oddly familiar. She looks down to see a medal, one she's made herself before. It was one of the first things she ever made for Frostpine, and touching it feels like coming home. If she's not mistaken, it's the same one from then.

"I don't understand," she admits.

Frostpine sighs, rubs one hand over his bald head.

"Our client. You must wonder about them."

They do make quite a range of things, and Daja has puzzled over it before, swapped theories with Kirel. He's a bit of a conspiracy theorist, and he always comes back to secret agents. This had seemed laughable, before. Now, this strange medal in her hand, Frostpine's strained gaze, the hush that falls on this workshop when there's no work happening in it, it doesn't seem so outlandish.

"Does the name 'Kingsmen' mean anything to you?"

Daja traces the K in the metal. "No, sir."

Frostpine stands, starting to pace. "I don't want to do this. But you're the only person I can think of that even has a chance. And I might not like it, but... I think you will." He stares down at her, and she feels her cheeks heat at the open pride on his face. "I think you will be phenomenal. We'll be sad to lose you, but either you fail and we get you back, or you succeed." His hand claps her on the shoulder, and she smiles at the man who has become something akin to a father to her, these last few years. "I think you will succeed, for the record."

"I thought you hated talking in riddles," she teases him, and he relaxes just a little, letting himself chuckle.

"I'm afraid you're about to have to deal with a lot more riddles. You'll see how I came to dislike them. You'll miss my straight talk, just you wait."

Daja doesn't like the thought of missing him at all, or leaving the workshop. But she trusts him, and she might not like riddles but she can't help but be curious as to what he's hinting about.

"Are you going to tell me what's happening, then?"

He shakes his head. "I can't. But show up here, with that medal, and say I sent you." He gives her an address and a time, and she's just about to head home (to pack, apparently, and to look into secret organizations who have use for cufflinks and claymores) with Frostpine clears his throat.

"Daja?"

"Yes, sir?"

He grins wickedly at her. "Bring your staff."

She returns his smile with a shark's grin of her own.


End file.
